


(and you can't tell me what my spirit tells me isn't true)

by agendersplendor



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Post-Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, angst but like in a positive way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agendersplendor/pseuds/agendersplendor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford's made a lot of mistakes, and most of them aren't very small ones, either- but maybe he should start learning to admit that some things are just out of his control. (spoilers for take back the falls)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(and you can't tell me what my spirit tells me isn't true)

**Author's Note:**

> _(can you?)_  
> 
> 
> i'm not a fic author and i don't claim to be (i write original stuff almost exclusively) and this is actually the first fic i've managed to finish, so shoutout to gravity falls for making me actually get off my ass and write something. because i'm predictable, of course it'd be something like this. title's from white cedar by the mountain goats (once again, because i am predictable) 

_woke up on lockdown one more time_  
_my visions won't ever learn_  
_but I see the light that much clearer_  
_every time I return_  
_forge my armor in the old fire_  
_my spirit sings loud and clear_  
_even in here_

[[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQGg58ixXjE)

* * *

 

For once in his life, everything seems like it might just end up going right, Ford notes with a ghost of a smile.  

The past few weeks have been rough, what with the end of the world, and the slow process of Stanley regaining his memories, and the kids going back to Piedmont as the summer draws to a close. It’s too quiet now, and not just because he’s sitting in the kitchen in the dark at half past three in the morning.

He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. He’s always had nightmares, probably always will, but they’ve transformed into something new as of late, something that somehow hits a lot closer to home-

It’s funny, because until now, he never thought anything could be closer than inside his own head, but the world works in mysterious ways, and nearly erasing your own brother’s mind for good can really screw someone up.

Part of him considers making a pot of coffee, the part of him that knows his go-to alternative is a lot stronger and a lot worse to be drinking in the middle of the night. He decides against either option after a bit of thought. Maybe some habits should be left in the past where they belong.

Ford takes off his glasses, sets them on the table in front of him, and rubs at his eyes with a weary sigh. There’s some sort of feeling at the pit of his stomach that he can’t quite place, and if he wants to be honest with himself, _that’s_ the reason he hasn’t been sleeping, more so than the nightmares. Maybe he should give himself more credit; it’s been less than a month since he'd gone through the most traumatic experiences of his life (and he’s no stranger to trauma) in rapid succession. Most people need time to heal from things like that.

… Though, most people-

(Everyone except him, actually)

-weren’t responsible for the _apocalypse_ , for the near deaths of the only family they ever had, the very same family they didn’t truly appreciate until it was almost too late.

He laughs. It’s by no means a happy sound.

It could be a lot worse, he thinks, and it’s almost funny because _who even thinks things like that in a situation like this-_

It’s true, though.

Stanley got his memories back. Ford doesn’t know why, or how (he still marvels at it. He’d been _so sure_ it was all over, that Stan was gone for good, and then Mabel surprised him yet again, fixing one of Ford’s mistakes with nothing but a whole lot of dedication and a _scrapbook_ , of all things), but he’s not going to argue because this is a dream come true. It’s still not perfect, there are gaps here and there, times where any sort of understanding leaves his brother’s face and he seems so _lost_ , but those times are becoming few and far in between as the days go by. As his memories first started to return, Ford had been worried there would be a catch, that Stanley would get _just enough_ back to make them all think things would be okay and then tear away all hope when they realized that it was all just some sort of fluke.

That wasn’t the case, of course, but paranoia and anxiety were both Stanford's forte. 

Intrusive thoughts showed up at least several times a day, digging in like the serrated edge of a newly-sharpened knife, the _what if he was gone forever_ , the _it would have been all your fault, just like everything else_ , the **_some brother you turned out to be_** -

“… _Shit_.” Ford slides down in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him and putting them on the table, and rests his chin against them.

He’s a wreck.

...

To be fair, though, he’s getting better.

There had been a turning point, recently, and things seemed to be crawling uphill from there.

In a fit of impulsivity, he’d gone out into the woods last week, had wandered around until he stumbled upon the last reminder of it all, one hand still outstretched after that one last deal that cost him everything.

For a while, Ford had sat in front of the statue in silent thought, knees drawn up to his chest.

Someone started yelling, at some point.

It had taken him a moment or two to realize he was the one doing the shouting. If you asked him now what all he’d said, he honestly can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. There’s just one line, spoken, not shouted (only because his voice had gone hoarse by that point) that stuck with him for some reason or another.

It had been simple.

“This was all _your_ fault.”

It was the first step in a long journey with no destination in sight, but it was enough to make Ford falter and stare down blankly at the likeness of the thing that ruined his life.

No ‘ _you ruined your own life_ ’ was parroted back at him from his own mind. No _'this was **your** fault, Stanford, you're the one who let him in'_. There was nothing but silence, for once in his damn life.

He’d laughed then, too, and his voice cracked.

It’s not like he hadn’t been told it wasn’t his fault. It was just hard to believe the kids, his brother, anyone, when the evidence of his mistakes still haunted him (and still does, but now it’s less tangible, more at the peripherals of his mind, like fog creeping in on a warm late-summer night) at every turn. He has enough guilt to last a lifetime, and he probably deserves every last bit of it.

Or maybe-

Maybe some things were out of his control from the start, as much as he hates, (or is nearly physically unable) to admit it.

He’d walked back to the shack after his outburst had died away into a series of coughs and a dull ache in his chest (and some other feeling that might have been the sense of a weight being taken off his shoulders). Stan was sitting on the couch on the porch when Ford staggered into the yard. He hadn't said anything, but there was a knowing look on his face, partially hidden by another expression that Ford recognized as concern. Ford moved to hurry inside, then hesitated in the doorway. He turned around. Stan blinked at him but still didn’t say anything. Ford sighed, and then walked over and sat down heavily next to his brother.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Ford managed a smile, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward in his seat. “I… don’t think so.” His voice was hesitant. Stan just nodded in response, then leaned forward to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

There was no visible reaction from the other man, but Ford knew he understood everything else that went along unsaid with that one word.

His prolonged moment of introspection over, Ford straightens back up again in his seat. The kitchen almost seems a little brighter, but that doesn't make any sense. 

Things will be better in the morning, he concludes with a nod, followed closely by a stifled yawn. Things are looking up, and there’s no sense in letting his past drag him down again (he has to admit, though, if things had turned out differently, he would have let it pull him down, hold him under until he drowned in the consequences of his arrogance). He has things to do, he’s been given a second chance and nothing’s going to stop him from doing everything in his power to deserve it-

There’s a boat waiting to set off into both the quiet unknown of the Arctic Ocean and the next stage of his life. Maybe he can finally leave all his demons, metaphorical and otherwise, behind him.

(It’s an idealistic goal, but he’s always been an idealist at heart)

He gets up from the table and stands for a while with his hands braced on the back of a chair. He listens to the silence of the night around him and only feels what has to be some semblance of peacefulness, rather than forty years of paranoia and the distant sense of something terrible lurking just out of sight.

Things aren’t _wrong_ , is his final conclusion.

Maybe they aren’t right yet, and maybe they never will be, not one hundred percent. 

But they’re on the right track.

...

And so is he.

 

* * *

 


End file.
